red light

I heard the shouting before I saw its source.

“What the fuck are you doing? Come on! Let's go!”

I assumed it was the testosterone-driven hysteria produced by a football game. I looked for the open window through which these shouts were escaping.

As I approached the corner, I was surprised to see a man shouting in my direction. He looked to be in his mid-30's, wearing khaki pants and a button-down blue shirt. His blonde hair had a boyish part, and he blew his bangs out of his eyes.

“Cross the fucking street already!”

It was then that I saw the target of his tirade. A small, bird-like woman stood on the corner, clutching a baby stroller. Her skinny little legs were brittle matchsticks. Bony shoulders scrunched up around her earlobes. Long, tapered fingers wrapped around the stroller, exposing white knuckles. Her eyes darted from the baby in the stroller up to the light. It was red.
The baby's plump body shook with sobs. Wisps of blonde hair lay stranded across her damp forehead. A pink hat was perched atop her head, and a pink pompom trembled at its tip. Scarlet cheeks were stained with streaks of tears.

“Shhh. Everything's okay. We're fine. It's fine.” The mother cooed, almost to herself.

She rocked the stroller quickly side to side. It was not the slow, soothing motion that would calm a child.

“Cross the fucking street. Now!”

The light was still red, but no cars were coming. The mother refused to move. I stood next to her, staring straight ahead. I wanted to lay my hand on her, but I couldn't bring myself to raise my arm. Instead, I stood silently by her side.

The light turned green. The stroller entered the intersection, and the mother's feet left the curb. I followed. We crossed the street, together.